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Talk:Nova/@comment-24917038-20150725095654/@comment-25065826-20150725141029
After a few seconds, he pulls his hood up again. Walking briskly, I would hope he has a destination in his mind. I just hope he is an ally. I slide my two pistols, baton and two short knives into my backpack, a flimsy thing but big enough for what I need. I couldn't see much of the 'fight', if you can call it that - it was more of a one-sided affair of killing than a fight - but what I did see was this guys adeptness with weapons and his power. Whatever the hell it is, he was flickering about the place, and occasionally a person would just drop to the floor, claw at themselves for a second, and just go limp. Yeah, I might want to avoid fighting. His appearance unnerves me, but I hope he isn't offended if he can tell. I mean, I can't exactly say my face is messed up compared to his, but I do know the feeling of being the centre of everyone's stares. "Sorry", I say, probably too quietly for his to hear. I'm not quite sure what for, yanking his cover off his head or just for him being him, but I think it needs saying. I see Doug turn beside me, for the seventh time, peering over his shoulder at the group of bodies pooling in blood on the floor behind us. I don't think he's been exposed to the amount of danger and risk of the outside world as this other guy has, or me to an extent, and I will admit, if I witnessed a slaughter a few hours after leaving the comfort of inside, I would be a bit terrified myself. His face is set in stone, though. Well, until he trips over his own foot. So tired. I haven't had a good night of sleep since before being kept in a cell, unless you count being knocked unconscious or drugged. It would seem as though Doug hasn't either. We keep walking, by no means in a straight line. Maybe there's threats I am yet to be wary of, but for the time being I just think the journey is just bending to make me walk further. I am not a fan. "Anything to talk about?" Doug asks rhetorically beside me. When no answer comes back, he smiles to himself sadly and stares at his feet for a while, trudging along with the rest of us, looking up only to see how long it is until we can stop. I can't keep wondering about rest, my knees melt at the slightest thought. "What's your power?" I ask Mr Mysterious. No reply. I don't think he's one for talking, I'm almost under the impression he can't talk or won't, and I pull the piece of paper he had earlier from my pocket. I hold it out, and without turning around, he slips it from my hand and writes on it for a few seconds, in the deep darkness. Handing it back, the paper brushes my hand after a second of feeling for it, and I hold it within a few inches of my face to read it. Not much further. Hooded guy flicks a look over his shoulder which I try to ignore. Either he's trying to decipher something from me, or he's wary I'm about to attack him. I mean, I'm good with knives, but with very little practise in the last few weeks I am more than a little rusty, let alone that I would have to move in, aim and actually hit Mr Vanishing Act to be able to attack him. He evidently has some brain, because he's overestimating me rather than underestimating me. A few minutes later, the ground levels out; and a car-shaped shadow lightly deepens the dark on the ground behind a sparse shrub, a while away. I've noticed since losing my vision in one eye that distance is a lot harder to judge. It makes sense. Maybe that's why I get raised eyebrows from people when my knives hit their target. I think the car is where Mr Mysterious is heading towards. And my legs lighten at the prospect.